


Childhood

by Houseofhaleth



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Edain, Gen, House of Hador
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-30
Updated: 2013-10-30
Packaged: 2017-12-30 18:17:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 830
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1021873
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Houseofhaleth/pseuds/Houseofhaleth
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Niënor's childhood is a lonely one, in the isolation of her conquered homeland.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Childhood

 Her mother had been restless all evening, so Niënor couldn’t sleep. Gathering her blanket in her arms, she shuffled off her bed and went to lie beside her mother.

She wasn’t there.

Morwen stood at the door, gazing out at a distant smear of orange on the horizon. Tall and frozen, she looked down at her daughter, then back to the fire.

Niënor leaned against her mother, resting her head on Morwen’s hip. She felt a hand touch her hair. It was midsummer. The Easterlings were celebrating.

‘I can’t sleep, Ma…can I have a candle?’

‘No.’ Morwen shook her head, eyes fixed on the fire. ‘They probably won’t come up here and bother us. But no light. I don’t want to remind them we’re here when they’ve been drinking.’

Despite herself, Niënor relaxed slightly. Her mother never lied. If she thought they might come, she’d say so.

They stood in the doorway, watching the light, until Morwen’s hand strayed to her daughter’s arm.

‘Come out of the cold,’ she instructed, leading her back into the house.

****

Although her mother never lied, she would sometimes not answer.

‘Ma, who is Lalaith?’

Morwen stiffened. ‘Who said that name?’

‘Sador,’ said Niënor, suddenly worried as her mother’s expression set.

‘I’ll have words with him.’

Niënor didn’t like giving up. ‘Who is she, though?’

‘That was what we called your sister Urwen, who died. But we don’t speak about her now.’

Niënor nodded. It was said with such finality, she knew not to bring her up again. Like her father. The last time she had asked where her father was, Morwen had replied,

‘I don’t know. I hope he’s dead.’

‘Why?’

‘Because if he lives, he is captured. That is worse. At least, it would be to him.’ Then she walked off, and Niënor didn’t dare follow.

****

One morning she woke to a cry of fury, and struggled out of bed, running barefoot into the courtyard.

Two figures with sacks were sprinting off towards the village, while her mother, brandishing a knife, swore horrible curses after them.

One of their guard dogs was dead at her feet. He was an old beast, but loyal. Niënor knelt in the mud, and buried her hands in his still-warm fur. His eyes stared into nothingness, and he didn’t move.

Morwen sank down next to her, looking exhausted. ‘Two chickens left, and a house to feed. We’ll…’ she looked away. ‘We’ll have to rely on Aerin.’

Niënor studied her, wondering why this seemed to be worse than the repeated thefts.

‘She risks enough for us. I should be the one saving her…’ Morwen seemed to gather herself. ‘Fetch a spade. We’ll bury Old Spot.’

****

There were very few children her age in the area, and even fewer she’d met. The adults in the house loved her, but they all had to work hard to survive. They didn’t have time to play with her.

Left to herself, she would pretend she had a friend. Soon she had named her imaginary companion Lalaith, and sometimes, under the covers at night, spoke to her sister in a whisper, sharing secrets and worries. And she would imagine what it would be like to have a big sister to hold her, brush her hair and explain things to her – to tell her it would all be okay.

She never spoke to her when someone else could hear. She knew her mother wouldn’t like it.

****

She wondered about her brother too, but he was one she could sometimes talk to her mother about – when she was in the right mood.

On her seventh birthday, kneading dough together, she kept an eye on Morwen to see if it was a good time to ask.

‘Spit it out,’ said Morwen, with a slight smile. Niënor had to shake her head at the way adults were so good at reading her.

‘I’m seven now. Are you going to send me away, like Túrin?’

Morwen blinked, as if the question had caught her by surprise. ‘I…no. I can’t…ask any more of Doriath. It’s different you see…they would foster your brother, because he’s Húrin’s heir. But you…besides, I can’t owe them any more. I have no more gold to give them. It’s not so very dangerous here for you, either – the Easterlings don’t fear you’ll grow and kill them.’

More fool them, Niënor might have replied. But she was too busy watching her mother in fascination. She was squirming slightly, and a colour had risen on her cheeks. Morwen never lied, but she was lying now.

Niënor thought about this, as they continued to knead.

‘If you tried to send me, I wouldn’t go,’ she said, frankly. ‘I wouldn’t go anywhere without you.’

Morwen caught her eye, and then looked away. When she looked back, the flush hadn’t gone from her cheeks, but she was smiling slightly.

‘You are so like your father,’ she said, tucking a strand of golden hair behind Niënor’s ear.


End file.
